Disclaimer: This story is in no way affiliated with UPN or Pet Fly Productions. The
characters
are their property and this story is not meant to infringe upon their copyrights in any way.

Many thanks to Tonya for her assistance in proofreading (ahem!) this story and her valuable
suggestions which enabled me to make it flow better and be more understandable. Oh, and
thanks
for posting this to your web page too.

Comments and criticisms are welcome. Please email to MoBecker@aol.com. We aim to
please
and can't do that if we don't know what you'all want. Now -- on with the show.

PAST PERFECT, FUTURE
TENSE

marlene a. becker

It was an unbelievably mild spring day for Cascade. Perfect for the university-sponsored
Renaissance Festival being held on the back grounds. Blair Sandburg had counted himself lucky
that
the weather had cooperated, otherwise, he'd never had gotten his friend and partner, Jim Ellison,
to
attend. Ellison was just not the festival type. He looked over and up at Ellison and grinned. At
least
the big man didn't have to attend in period dress. Sandburg chuckled at the idea of Ellison in
tights --
not that it would be easy to find any to fit his six-foot plus frame anyway.

"Here you go, Jim." Sandburg handed Ellison his pass and steered him toward the entrance.

"Is this trip really necessary?" Ellison grumbled.

"You're gonna LOVE it!! Where else can you ogle beautiful women dressed to accent their
best
features . . ."

"I know a few streets."

"Legally, Jim. I'm talking legally here." Sandburg handed the gatekeeper his complimentary
teacher's pass and recognized one of his students dressed as a glorified imitation of Robin Hood.

"Hi, Warren. Any recommendations?"

"Oh, hi Mr. Sandburg. Yeah, sure. Start counter-clockwise for the best eats. The turkey legs
are
great and don't miss the baked apples for desert."

"Thanks." Sandburg noted that Ellison had perked up at the mention of food. No sooner had
they
entered the main vendor area, when a couple in jeans and light jackets strolled by casually
munching
on two of the largest turkey legs he had ever seen.

"Told you." Sandburg stopped at the opening to the main compound and stared down the
row at
booth after booth -- each hawking a 20th century version of medieval delicacies. "Wow, would
you
look at all that food!!" He sniffed and momentarily desired his friend's heightened sense of
smell.
"Mm-m-m-m-m. *Smell* that food." Suddenly he turned to Ellison, the gleam of knowledge in
his
eyes. "Say, Jim . . ."

"No." Ellison interrupted, one hand raised as if to ward off evil spirits. "You said yourself,
this
is a holiday. Well, leave me alone with the tests for once."

"Jim . . ." Sandburg looked up at him, his blue eyes pleading.

Ellison pulled his impressively large frame together, stood even taller and glared down at his
even
shorter partner. "I said, No," he stated firmly and strode toward the third vendor in the row.
Thanks
to his heightened senses, he had already found the seller of over-sized turkey legs -- he did not
need
a battery of tests to help him find food.

Resigned, Sandburg followed. Officially there were to be no tests, but that didn't stop him
from
mentally taking notes on Ellison's actions -- like watching him home in on a particular delicacy
that
he'd selectively chosen from the wealth of smells assailing his nostrils.

After eating their way halfway around the courtyard, vendors of handmade items began to
appear.
Beautiful paintings, sculptures, and blown glass vied for attention alongside hand-crafted harps,
dulcimers, and jewelry. A small shop displaying skillfully created knives and swords was at the
end
of one row and Sandburg couldn't help being drawn to it.

He selected a plain-bladed knife with an intricately carved wooded handle and carefully
turning
it over in his hands, marveled at the workmanship. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"I've got to admit, these are the work of a master craftsman." Ellison's gaze wandered over
the
display of various weapons. He hadn't realized there were still people in the U.S. who could
make
this quality blade by using ancient hand methods. He was reaching for a scimitar when his
sensitive
nose suddenly touched on an odor so vile, so repugnant, it sent him reeling against the edge of
the
booth.

"Whoa, Jim." Recognizing the symptoms of sensory assault, Sandburg immediately replaced
the
knife and reached out for his friend. "What happened?"

Shaking his head as if that would rid him of the offending smell, Ellison welcomed
Sandburg's
support. Sandburg was his Guide; his teacher in the use of his overly heightened senses that
would
occasionally, like now, be more of a liability than a blessing. Just knowing his friend was there
was
often a comfort, although he seldom, if ever, would admit it -- to anyone. "A smell ... like death
...
like ... nothing I've ever experienced before. Awful ..."

"Tune it down." Sandburg said quickly. "Isolate it, remove it." He laid a hand on Ellison's
arm
when the big man noticeably winced at the assault on his sense of smell. "I know, I know," the
young
man lowered his voice to a comforting, soothing level. "But you have to recognize it in order to
remove it." Gradually, Ellison's body relaxed, a sure sign that the offending odor was under
control.
"Okay now?" Sandburg's expressive face could not hide his concern at his friend's discomfort.

Ellison opened his eyes and looked around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time.
"Yeah.
Yeah, it's gone." He brushed a big hand across his damp forehead. "Whew! I don't know what
that
was, but it was the worse ..."

"Just as long as you didn't smell it at the food court." Sandburg joked. "Now that would have
made me worry."

Grinning, Ellison steered Sandburg away from the weapons' booth and toward a vendor
offering
still-warm delicate pastries, whose scent was wafting across the path. "I know exactly what to
replace
that smell with."

As the two men wove their way through the mixed crowd of medieval and 20th century
merrymakers, they were watched by a pair of old, rummy eyes. Evil eyes, filled with hate. "So,
we
meet again -- at last. I should've known he would appear now. Now that the time is close."

A young voice, questioning, but hesitant, "Master?"

"Patience, Thomas. Patience. If there's one thing I have learned in my long life, it is patience.
I
must know where he lives. Follow. But do not let him see you." The old man waved a skeletal
hand
over the teenager, closed his eyes and muttered to himself in a language long dead. "Now go," he
told
his apprentice after he'd willed his eyelids to flutter upward. With that blessing, or curse
depending
on one's outlook, Thomas would have no trouble keeping himself unnoticed by his quary.

Ellison and Sandburg had polished off their latest culinary delight and were wandering,
enjoying
the beautiful weather and interesting scenery. Some much more than others.

"Don't you find it interesting to compare different cultures?" Sandburg asked idly, watching
a
buxom young lady flounce by in brocaded silk.

"Hum?" Ellison was following the sway of the same lady but with a different idea of what to
compare.

"I mean, in some cultures it's perfectly acceptable for a woman to walk around half-naked
just
as long as she keeps her ankles covered." Sandburg continued in teacher mode. "Personally,
ankles
just don't get me excited ..."

"Chief," Ellison interrupted in an attempt to avoid a lecture, "Look over there, a palm reader!
Why don't you give it a try?"

With a resigned shrug, Ellison forced a grin and followed Sandburg inside.

The interior was small. Designed for intimacy, it contained only two chairs and one small,
round
table covered with a white linen cloth. Several fat candles burned within protective glass
holders. The
palm reader sat at the far side of the table, facing the tent's opening. The woman was either an
actress
worthy of an Oscar or she really was a gypsy palm reader.

She glanced at the two men and stated the obvious. "I have one chair."

Ellison turned to leave when Sandburg spoke. "I don't have any secrets from Jim."

Sighing, Ellison offered the reader a brief smile of resignation and stood as far off to one
side as
he could, which was still barely an arm's length away.

Unsmiling, the reader looked at Sandburg and indicated the chair. "Sit," she commanded.
When
he had settled himself comfortably, she held out her left hand and indicated that's where he
should
place his right. Silently, Sandburg obediently laid his right hand, palm up, on top of hers. As she
studied the lines and contours of his palm he cast a look toward Ellison that said he'd cast his
vote
for her as best actress anytime.

Ellison was ready to agree, for his sensitive hearing had picked up the subtle, but noticeable
increase of the lady's heartbeat. The rapid beat of someone having made the find of the century,
but
outwardly, showing nothing. But why? What was so exciting about reading a palm?

"This line," she ran a, long-nailed finger alongside a crease in Sandburg's palm, "Is the line
of
a teacher," Sandburg grinned up at Ellison. "A mentor, a guide." Ellison stifled a cough. "It is so
deep, to instruct is so ingrained in your nature -- that a thousand years ago, you might have been
called wizard." Sandburg's smile spread all the way across his face. "This line," and she indicated
another, longer line, "Tells me that yours is an old soul. You have been on this plane many times
before." She looked Sandburg directly in the eyes. "To put it bluntly, you've been there, done that
--
already."

Sandburg was ecstatic. "Wow. That's really great. Can you tell if I've always been a teacher?"

"I would say probably in 90 percent of your lives, you have taught in some form."

"Man, an old soul . . . can you tell how old?"

She shook her head slowly. "Your time line is very, very long. It is quite possible you were
around
for the last millennium celebration." She pushed a small reed basket into the center of the table.
"Five
dollars."

Laughing, Sandburg placed a bill in the container. "Thanks." He stood, turned to Ellison and
indicated the chair. "Your turn."

"Oh no. Not me."

Shrugging, the reader held up a ten dollar bill. "Might as well. You're paid for."

Ellison glared at Sandburg who grinned and nodded at the closed tent flap. "Want me to
leave?"

" Course not," Ellison grumbled as he parked himself and stuck out his hand.

Cradling the large hand within her much smaller one, she began to examine the creases in
the
palm. "Warrior," she muttered, then, surprised, she said louder, "You are an innocent."

Sandburg nearly choked and had to turn away to compose himself.

"I beg your pardon?" Ellison asked, wondering what the joke was.

"An innocent. Yours is a relativity new soul. This is probably only your second life." Her
black
luminous eyes stared into his face, into his intense blue eyes and Ellison found himself
uncomfortable
under her scrutiny. "Yes, you are new . . . but you have an old talent. Old ways. Unknown and
strange
to you." Slowly, her gaze traveled to Sandburg then, just as slowly, returned to Ellison. "Teacher
. .
. apprentice." She gently folded Ellison's fingers into his palm signaling the end of the session.
"Do
not deny the talent. You will learn, in time, its use, its value."

"Uh, yeah. Thanks," Ellison muttered as he slid out of the chair and through the partially
opened
tent flap in one fluid movement.

"Wow, man! Was that weird or what?" Sandburg had appeared, almost trotting at Ellison's
side
to keep up. "Suppose she really knows something? I mean has THE gift, you know?"

"The gift of observation, you mean. That IS one talented lady, all right. She would've made a
great detective."

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. Ellison finally allowed himself to relax and
enjoy
the displays of jousting and swordsmanship. Sandburg did not mention tests again that
afternoon. He
was satisfied with Ellison's control and handling of the nasty smell situation. Neither was aware
of
their constant shadow, watching their every move. Waiting for them to leave so he could fulfill
his
master's wishes.

Several hours later, when they finally left the faire grounds Thomas blended so perfectly
with the
exiting crowd that not even Ellison's heightened senses detected his presence. Ellison's truck was
distinctive enough that Thomas had no trouble tracking it in the ensuing traffic jam. Once they
were
on the main road he allowed himself to relax, for it was an easy tail to Ellison's apartment. He
wrote
down the address and swiftly reversed directions. His job was done. The master would be
pleased.

Monday morning. Most eight o'clock classes at the university were half-filled and this was
an
even sparser attendance than usual. Blair Sandburg took the opportunity to drop off some lesson
assignments to the handful of students in his class and dismissed them for the rest of the period.
On
a whim, he decided to visit the library and see what he could find on wizards of a thousand years
past.
Not that he really believed that his soul, or chi, or life-force, or whatever one called it was in
existence a millennium ago -- but it would be interesting to check out. Just to see. Just for fun.

The old librarian was extremely knowledgeable about areas of the paranormal and general
unusualness and was able to show Sandburg exactly what dusty old volumes might contain the
information he was seeking. After piling the dozen books on a vacant, out-of-the-way table he
gave
Sandburg a strange, half-smile and a curt nod. "If you need anything else," the soft, silky voice
offered, "just ask."

Sandburg ran a hand through his long mass of curls and nodded in return. "Thanks," he said
just
above a whisper. Then, as he sat down and began to leaf through the first volume, he slowly
shook
his head in wonderment. "Talk about old! That guy was probably the head librarian for the
archives
in Rome. Ancient Rome."

Several hours and three-quarters of the books later, Sandburg found an obscure reference to
a
battle between two powerful wizards at the turn of the millennium. Kalabar had warred with
Xasaine
over control of the Earth. Xasaine was about to unleash the demons of hell and Kalabar had
stopped
him with his good magic. Once the door to Hell was closed, Kalabar faded into the past and no
more
was mentioned of him.

Sighing, Sandburg closed the book and stretched. "Stupid idea," he muttered to himself.
"There's
no such thing as past life experiences." He piled the books on the corner of the table for the
librarian
to restock and as he laid the old volume on top, his hand lingered over the embossed surface of
the
leather and his normally alert eyes glazed for a moment. "They never get anything right anyway,"
he
spoke so softly, only Ellison would've been able to hear. "Cintoban was the wizard. Xasaine was
the
apprentice."
*********************

When Sandburg walked into the stationhouse that afternoon, Jim Ellison was just pulling on
his
jacket.

"No. It's all right. I'll come." Apprehension and an uncommon adrenaline surge suddenly
made
Sandburg a little queasy. "Straighten up Sandburg," he admonished himself, swallowing hard.
"Next
time have breakfast."

"You okay?" Ellison shot a glance back at his partner. Sandburg was too quiet for him. It
wasn't
normal.

"Haven't eaten yet." Sandburg offered as explanation as he climbed into the passenger's seat
of
Ellison's truck.

"Well, from what Simon said, that might be good." Ellison pulled out of the garage and
expertly
began to wind his way through traffic. "Simon and forensics have been there a half hour already.
I
was finishing up a case and just got in. Victim is a young girl, late teens, heart cut out."

"I'm guessing that was the cause of death."

"It would seem obvious, but the lab will make it official. Her parents were away for the
weekend,
the girl didn't want to go with them -- typical teenager -- they came home and found her.
Mother's
sedated, father's not much better off. She was their only daughter."

Ellison turned down a residential side street and was greeted by a sea of flashing lights.
Police
cars, coroner's wagon, ambulance and milling police officers clogged the asphalt. Ellison found
a
vacant piece of road and parked. He headed for the tidy white house nearly buried in officials;
Sandburg by his side.

" Bout time you got here," Captain Simon Banks called to Ellison from inside.

"What've you got?" Ellison activated his detective manner and mentally began to register the
particulars of the murder scene.

"Coroner puts the time of death at approximately midnight -- give or take. Right now the
cause
of death is probably the removal of the heart."

"You mean she was alive when it was removed?"

The medical examiner wandered by, removing his plastic gloves. "I'd say so. She was
probably
unconscious though. Judging from the bruises on her neck, she was half strangled. I'll know
more
after the autopsy."

Captain Banks lowered his voice so only Ellison could hear. "I don't need to tell you this is a
particularly nasty one. We need to get this wrapped up as soon as possible."

"I'll do my best, captain."

Banks nodded in the direction of Sandburg, standing just outside the door. "What's with
Sandburg? He's usually following you around like a puppy."

"Well, he's really not used to this much bloodshed; after all he isn't a cop, he's a professor."

"Yeah," Banks absentmindedly pulled out an unlit cigar and fingered it. "He's around so
much,
I forget sometimes."

Once Sandburg saw the content of the murder scene, he opted to wait by the door, out of
everyone's way. Concentrating on the methodical actions of the police, enabled him to keep his
stomach contents where they belonged. Now he watched his partner with interest as Ellison put
his
Sentinel abilities to work -- sniffing, touching, looking for signs that only he could sense.

Sandburg couldn't help feel a little proud as the detective's investigation proceeded utilizing
the
anthropology student's training and guidance. After a greater part of an hour, Sandburg began to
get
curious as to why no one was ever glancing in the direction of the bloody writing on the wall.
When
Ellison passed close by, he caught his partner's attention and motioned him over.

Sandburg took another breath and ignored him. ". . . but how come no one's investigating
the
writing on the wall over there?" He gestured in the direction of the bloody numbers.

Ellison turned toward the wall, frowned, and returned his attention to Sandburg whose
expressive
face now silently asked the question for him *Well?* The answer was not what Sandburg
expected.

"What writing?"

He was so surprised, Sandburg almost stuttered. "Jim! Don't you see it?" His expression
abruptly
changed from surprise to concern. "Hey, don't kid around, man."

"I'm not kidding." Ellison's straight-forward tone was edged with annoyance.

Sandburg was getting agitated. He looked from his partner to the wall and back again. "663,
Jim.
6...6...3! It's right there!" He forced a swallow and added more softly. "Looks like it was written
in
blood."

"What's going on here?" Captain Banks no-nonsense tone cut through the conversation
followed
swiftly by his presence coming between the two unlikely partners.

Ellison cleared his throat. "Blair says there's some writing on the wall, Simon."

Nodding, Ellison agreed. "That just might work. Show me where the writing starts."

Anxiously, Sandburg led Ellison to the wall and pointed to the first number. "The edge of it
starts
right here. Close your eyes and let your hand hover just above the surface. Concentrate only on
the
sensory input from your fingers."

Doing as his guide suggested, Ellison shut down as much of his other senses as he dared and
zoned in on his sense of touch. As his hand hovered over the indicated area, he experienced a
difference in the surface temperature. It was slight, even to his heightened sense -- but it WAS
there.
He followed the edge of the temperature variation around the entire number completely
oblivious to
the presence of his Guide and his captain.

After making a complete circumference of the first number, he gingerly lowered his hand
toward
the surface until he was touching the wall itself. Ellison's eyes snapped open and he almost
jerked
his hand away in surprise. . .dried blood! The texture was unmistakable. He looked at the wall
where
his hand now rested and stared intently, trying to discern any visual evidence of the writing.
There
was none.

"Well, I don't know about that, but there is definitely something on this wall. I can feel it, but
I
don't get any visual at all." Turning to the captain, Ellison removed his hand and wiped it on his
jeans. "Simon, I suggest we get an infrared camera out here and see if it can pick up anything. It
might
be too late, but we can try."

Frustrated, Captain Banks looked from Ellison to Sandburg. "This is nuts!! Sandburg sees
the
writing and you feel it! How can Sandburg see it?" He turned to the young man and glared at
him.
"Don't tell me you're getting heightened senses now?" he whispered.

Shrugging, Sandburg looked at the captain in wide-eyed innocence. He truly didn't know
why he
was the only one to see the bloody numbers scrawled on the far wall.

Ellison tapped him on the shoulder. "Wait here," he commanded as he strode off, as
determined
in his pursuit as if it were the holy grail.

"Now what?" Banks frowned at Ellison's retreating back then turned his glare on Sandburg.
"Where's he going?"

Sandburg shrugged again. This was all getting too confusing.

Momentarily, Ellison returned, holding aloft a broad-tipped marker that he shoved into
Sandburg's right hand. "Outline every drop," he ordered. "We'll take pictures after you're
through."

After saluting with the marker, Sandburg walked over to the wall, took a deep breath and
began
the process of outlining every number, every drop of stray blood.

"Jim," Captain Banks turned to his detective, puzzled and annoyed. "Just what the hell is
going
on here?"

"I've no idea." Ellison looked at the captain in total innocence. "Really!"

Banks sighed. "Keep me informed. I'm going back to the office."

"Yes, sir."

Ellison watched perplexed as his partner worked. Why was Sandburg seeing the bloody
numbers
and he, with all his Sentinel abilities, was not? He could feel them. And if he concentrated, he
could
probably smell them. But why Sandburg? What was happening?

It had been a very long, and very tiring day. Sandburg had fallen asleep as soon as he went
horizontal. Ellison noted the rhythmic sound of his breathing and nodded, happy that his partner,
at
least, was sleeping peacefully. He did a quick sensory scan of the apartment for any unwelcome
intruders and satisfied, went to bed himself.

He had just laid down when he sensed a presence by his bed. Alerted, he slid his hand under
the
pillow for his weapon.

"It's okay, Jim. It's just me."

"Blair?" Ellison relaxed at the sound of his partner's voice, but still remained on alert.

"Yeah, well, sort of."

Ellison's senses registered the differences -- although the actual voice was Sandburg's, there
was
a tone, a maturity that was not his partner's. Sandburg stepped into view and Ellison frowned at
the
change. The eyes, the normally expressive, laughing eyes were harder, older. "Who are you?"

A hand reached up and in a familiar gesture, brushed back a wayward section of hair that
had
fallen across Sandburg's eyes. "Blair Sandburg . . ."

"No." Ellison interrupted.

"Let me finish. A thousand years ago I was known as Kalabar. Over the years I have gone by
many names, in this reincarnation, I am Blair Sandburg."

"This isn't real." Ellison shook his head in confusion.

"This is your subconscious. Technically, you're asleep." Sandburg/Kalabar sat down on air,
levitating nicely several feet above the floor, legs crossed, looking like an ancient monk.
"Technically, I'm asleep -- but I had to talk to you."

"Why now?"

"I didn't know who I'd been before. Being reincarnated is a lot like having amnesia -- you
start
your life all over again without any knowledge of your past life -- or lives. That palm reader
kicked
in a few memories; that murder today kicked in a few more."

"The murder? What has that got to do with you?"

"That's a ritual murder. I've seen it before, many, many years ago."

"Now wait a minute, you're Blair Sandburg, an anthropology student and sometime
professor.
How could you -- even if you are Kalabar -- know about these murders?"

You see, the girl was a sacrifice --just one of a long drawn-out sequence of events necessary
to
open the gates of Hell." Sandburg/Kalabar cocked his head and stared at Ellison in another
familiar
gesture. Ellison found this similarity unnerving. "Am I going too fast for you?"

Ellison slammed the palm of his hand against the bed, propelling himself into a sitting
position.
"You expect me to believe the murderer of that girl thinks her death will open the gates of
Hell?!"

Sandburg/Kalabar shook his head. "I didn't say that. You see," He looked very
uncomfortable,
as if Ellison had just discovered his living room had been taken over by a shipment of ancient
ceremonial masks. "After certain ... um ... events take place -- Hell CAN be opened! We are at
the
edge of the millennium, you know. Strange occurrences will be commonplace. A thousand years
ago
wizards and magic were common, demons or angels could be your next door neighbor. But
mankind
has changed and evolved. Now, technology just might be the world's downfall. No one
remembers
the old ways. Hollywood has made B-movie jokes of the old demons and no one will know what
to
do when the real thing happens."

"But you do."

"Certain countermeasures will surface in my subconscious when the time comes, I'm sure. I
just
wanted to let you know this is more important than the murder of one young woman. The fate of
the
entire world is at stake here." Suddenly, he tilted his head as if listening, the face softened and
was
brightened by a Sandburg grin. "Gotta go. My REM is ending."

"WAIT!" Ellison quickly reached out for him but touched only darkness. The figure had
faded
abruptly.

"What?" A voice asked from the black edge of sleep. "Hurry it up, I ain't got all night."

"I've so many questions . . . will I see you again?"

"You see me every day, Jim -- we're partners."

"You know what I mean -- will I see Kalabar again?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"Will I remember you?"

"I doubt that either of us will remember this conversation after we wake up. We've been
talking
on a subconscious level."

"This Sentinel thing -- were you once a Sentinel, yourself?"

Sandburg's form materialized on the edge of sleep. "Nah. It's more than just genetic. It's in
the
spirit, the life-force. I'm a teacher, remember?"

Ellison stared at him in realization. "You were a Guide!"

The vision grinned and slowly faded into the blackness. "Interesting how I've come to be
myself
again. Isn't it?"

Sandburg stared at Ellison, waiting for the rest of the sentence, as he grabbed his juice and
sat
down. Finally, after an undetermined amount of time, he could stand it no longer. "What, man?
What
is it?"

"Oh. Um." Ellison frowned, trying to remember what he wanted to ask -- trying to remember
what
he couldn't remember. "Nothing. I guess."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I had this real weird dream. I remember thinking that I wanted to talk to you . . ." He
shook his head and sipped his steaming coffee. "But I sure can't remember what about."

"Was it Sentinel-related?"

"I think so, maybe . . . but . . . it's gone now."

"Well, if you don't think about it, maybe it will come back to you. Dreams are like that, you
know. If they're important."

"Yeah." Ellison took a long swallow of his now perfect temperatured coffee. A temperature
that
would only last for a short fraction of time. When he finished, and realized the coffee was gone,
he
gazed into the bottom of the cup and studied the few grounds lining the edges. "Chief, what's the
timeframe of the sentinels you're studying?" he asked absentmindedly.

"Timeframe?" Sandburg frowned and shut one eye, concentrating. "I'd say -- oh -- about 500
years ago, give or take a few. Why?"

"No reason. Just curious." He looked over at his partner, his mind trying to grasp a question
that
was hovering at the edge of a memory -- a memory that was abruptly erased when the phone
rang.
Scraping back his chair, he strode into the living room and snagged the phone that never seemed
to
be in the same place twice. "Ellison," he stated into the receiver.

"It's Banks, ... Jim ..."

"There's been another one," Ellison finished for the captain.

"Yeah." Even over the phone, Simon Banks' voice sounded weary, frustrated. "Same MO as
the
first. Number 664 written in blood on the wall. No one could see it but the camera."

"Damn!"

"Thank Sandburg for me. If it hadn't been for him, we would have totally overlooked that
clue.
Jim, the number's gone up one."

"What's the address?"

"3366 Lamplight Road."

"Got it. Twenty minutes." As Ellison replaced the receiver on the endtable, he knew
Sandburg
was standing by his side, even without looking. It was a *Sentinel* thing as his Guide would say,
if
Ellison would've told him about it. Which he hadn't. Somehow, Ellison figured Sandburg already
suspected his sensitivity to his presence anyway.

"I'm going with you." It was a statement, not a question.

"Look, Chief, it's another bad one. This seems to be shaping up into serial killings. You don't
need to be there."

But Sandburg was already standing half outside the open door. "You coming?"

With a resigned shake of his head, Ellison followed him out. There was no arguing with
Sandburg
when he had his mind made up. Well, he could argue . . . for all the good it would do.

Sandburg settled himself behind the seatbelt and looked expectantly at his partner. "Where're
we
going?"

"3366 Lamplight Road," Ellison answered, firing up the truck and blending into traffic. An
exclamation from his Guide momentarily diverted his attention away from the road as he turned
to
glance at Sandburg, "Chief? You okay?"

"Oh Jim, this is way more than just a serial killer. Don't you see the connections?"

" Fraid not." The big man returned to his driving. Sandburg would fill him in -- with details,
he
was certain.

Beside him Sandburg released an exasperated sigh. "3366, translates into 666 -- the sign of
the
devil. Lamplight, coal oil was used in old lamps -- get it? Coal fire? Hell fire? The road to Hell --
Lamplight Road?"

"Isn't that reaching a bit? This is just a flesh and blood killer committing a heinous crime.
That's
all. Not some demon ..."

"No, Jim. You don't understand. I'm not saying a demon killed those women, but a flesh and
blood human trying to gain acceptance into Hell or trying to raise a demon from Hell could
have."

"You mean this is some sort of ritual?"

Sandburg nodded excitedly, blue eyes shinning intensely as his long curls bobbed around his
face.
"Exactly! A rite of passage or a badge of acceptance."

"So this could be what our killer thinks Satan wants as a ... um ... token of faith." Ellison's
deep
blue eyes clouded over as the realization struck. "You said 666 was the number of the devil?
And the
first victim had 663 on the wall, now there's 664 ..."

"There's going to be two more murders," Sandburg said with a moan, leaning his head back
against the seat.

Ellison's only response was a rapid clenching of his jaw muscles. This case was going to
give
those muscles a workout.

Captain Simon Banks was not pleased to hear the latest Sandburg theory on the serial killer;
although he had to admit it did make a certain amount of sense. At least it would to a serial
killer. He
sighed. Nothing was ever simple. He looked at the shorter man with the expressive face and
shook
his head. Sometimes this unofficial consultant seemed little more than a green college kid and
other
times he exhibited the knowledge and insight of Yoda. It just wasn't natural. Banks removed his
glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. After replacing them, he glared at Sandburg who was
still
standing, gazing at him expectantly. Banks felt like giving him a pat on the head, he reminded
him
so much of his favorite dog he had when he was growing up. "Good work, Sandburg. That's an
angle
we hadn't thought of." He gestured into the murder room. "I'd appreciate it if you would take a
look
around and tell us if you see anything we can't."

Laying a comforting hand on his partner's shoulder, Ellison smiled reassurance. Sometimes
it
could be hard to enter a murder scene this bloody two days straight. "Sure thing, Chief."

Sandburg charged through the door, oblivious to the carnage within. "I need you to tell me if
you
can see what I see or if I'm seeing something you can't."

That statement make Banks' head swim. "I'll see you back at the station," he called out to his
detective's vanishing back.

Quickly, Sandburg noted and explained in detail every bloody spot on the wall. The officer
holding the infrared camera trailed along behind him, just to make sure he'd captured all the
blood
invisible to the human eye on film. It wasn't until they had covered every inch of the crime scene
and
Sandburg stepped back to view the entire room that reality hit and he turned a remarkable shade
of
green. "Oh god, Jim. I think I'm gonna be sick."

Ellison nodded in understanding. He was wondering when the clinical Sandburg would be
finished and the all too human Sandburg would realize the horrific nature of the crime.
"Bathroom's
around the corner. It's been dusted."

The young officer holding the camera watched Sandburg race for the facilities and slowly
locked
the lens cap back in place. "Don't know how he held out that long." He bent over and placed the
equipment gently into its case, while carefully keeping his back to the doorway. He straightened,
shouldered the heavy carrier and looked into Ellison's penetrating blue eyes. "I couldn't hold it
for
a minute after I walked into that room."

A few minutes later Sandburg emerged wiping his face with a paper towel. "Sorry about
that, Jim.
I don't know what came over me."

"How about reality?"

"I don't know how you stand it. Seeing stuff like this day after day."

"It never gets easier, Chief. You just learn to tune it out."

*And deal with it in your nightmares.* Sandburg thought. *There are some things a Sentinel
can't hide from his Guide, Jim.* "Would you drop me off at the loft so I can get my car? I want
to
do some research at the library."

"I can drop you off there."

"That's all right. I don't know how long I'll be."

"Okay." Ellison nodded but had a disquieting feeling that his partner was hiding something
from
him. Oh well, he was over 21 and didn't have to account to Jim Ellison for his whereabouts every
second of the day.

Blair Sandburg pulled into the parking lot of the Renaissance Festival grounds. The fair was
closed now, it was only open Thursday through Sunday, but he was hoping to find something
here
anyway. What, he did not know. He knew only that he'd been drawn here as surely as a starving
man
to a free meal.

He entered through a side door and stood quietly gazing at the rows of shuttered vendors'
booths,
wondering why he was there. A few vendors who lived in their RVs and traveled from festival to
festival milled about, talking and laughing, none gave him a second look. He sighed. What WAS
he
doing there?

The gypsy palm reader suddenly appeared at his elbow and cocked her head at him in
wonderment. "Wizard! I didn't expect to see you here today." She was dressed pretty much as she
had
been on Sunday. Either it wasn't an act or she lived the part.

Startled, Sandburg jumped back, then grinned as he recognized her. "Oh, hi. Well, to tell you
the
truth, I didn't expect to be here either."

"Oh?" She deftly entwined her arm in his and began walking toward her RV parked behind
the
medieval trappings of the main grounds. "You are troubled ... and it doesn't take a psychic to see
that."

"Yeah. There's just been some complications in my life the past few days and I'm not sure
how
to handle it just yet."

She nodded. "A-ah. Woman. No, several women." Stopping suddenly, she turned, stared into
his
eyes, and started -- as if gazing upon the very scene he had just witnessed. "Your student ... he is
a
policeman?"

Sandburg nodded silently, not even aware she had called Ellison his student'.

"And you are training him in his ... um ... talent?"

Again, a nod.

"I can see it is sometimes difficult for you to be in two worlds -- yours, of your own choosing
and
his ... also of your own choosing."

Animated, Sandburg threw out his hands in a helpless gesture. "But these last two days
something's happened to me that's never happened before and ... and ..." he added quietly, "...and
I
guess it scares me."

"Yes. The unknown *would* frighten a scholastic. But *you* have done more than just live
your
life out of books. You seek the unknown, the unusual."

"Yes," Sandburg agreed, once more becoming hyper. "But don't you see, *I'm* the unknown
here
-- to me, to my friends. *I* have become unusual."

The gypsy laid a calming hand on his shoulder. "Something tells me, darlin', you were
*never*
mainstream."

He had to smile at that remark, knowing how true it was. Then he sighed and pushed a lock
of
wayward hair back into place. "So, what do you suggest?"

She shrugged. "Hey, I'm not Ann Landers -- but I might offer a piece of advice -- this
*talent* that
you now possess, you do so for a reason. For now, accept it, use it to your advantage and for the
betterment of others. Its reason for existing will become known in time."

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

"It's difficult for the teacher to think of himself as a student." She opened the door to her RV
and
smiled at him. "Beer?"

Momentarily taken by surprise, Sandburg only smiled and nodded. Then he took the time to
notice how young she was, with long black hair tucked behind her ears and huge dark eyes to get
lost
in. "You have a pretty good talent yourself," he said, referring to her insight as he accepted an
amber
bottle.

She smiled and lowered her head, gazing at him through tilted night-black eyes. "Oh, you
have
no idea."

He choked and sputtered on his first swallow at that remark and looked at her with blue eyes
wide
in wonderment. The difference of night and day. Clearing his throat, Sandburg thanked her for
the
advice and walked back toward the main grounds.

"Come back when you get control of your talent," she winked at him as she disappeared into
the
mobile home.

*Oh, man.* Sandburg grinned as he walked back onto the world of the medieval festival.
*Have
I got it or what!* His spirits were considerably lifted as he continued his circumference of the
grounds. He was getting ready to return to his car when he noticed the weapons' booth. The same
booth where Ellison had nearly gotten sick from the vile smell attacking his heightened sense.
Curious, he wandered closer. His heart began to beat rapidly, his mouth lost all moisture, and his
body
filled with adrenaline. *This is strange.* He thought to himself, recognizing the symptoms of
flight
or fight. *There's nothing here to be afraid of. Why am I acting this way?*

Jim Ellison's head snapped up from the attention he'd been giving the photos strewn about on
his normally tidy desk. Staring straight ahead, he concentrated on a connection with his Guide
that
had suddenly been activated. Sandburg was very frightened of something ... or someone. There
was
trouble ...? He tried to see, tried to feel, but the link wasn't strong enough. He knew his partner
wasn't
in grave danger or the connection would've sent him reeling. *What the hell could've happened
at
the library? Unless ...* Ellison's brow creased in a dark frown as he realized that Sandburg, in all
probability, didn't go to the library. *But where *is* he?*

Evil watched his every move. Small, clouded eyes, mere pinpricks of vision, stared in
loathing
and with all his twisted, shrunken heart wished he could spell Sandburg's death. But that ability
was
taken from him hundreds of years ago -- a decade of centuries ago. *But you *will* die, Kalabar.
You
think you can hide from me within your new young body? Hah! You've made a fatal mistake by
always looking so similar to your original self. But I would know you anywhere ... in any shape.
I will
take pleasure in watching the ground turn crimson with your blood. Yours and your infernal
apprentice.*

Sandburg could almost feel the evil permeating the structure, it was that tangible. He
shuttered
against the increasing coldness surrounding him and began to doubt his wisdom in not telling
Ellison
where he was going. The closer he got to the small booth, the more his head began to spin. His
stomach was attempting to do somersaults and he dragged in gulps of fresh air in an attempt to
calm
it. He extended a shaky hand toward the building to steady himself, but when he touched the
surface
he cried out in pain and jerked it away. Intense heat had reddened the palm of his hand and he
could
tell there were going to be blisters. Instinctively, he quickly folded his hands together and
entwined
his fingers in an ancient position of protection, bowing his head and holding them in front of his
forehead as he backed away.

Only a Sentinel would have heard the softly muttered curse at the end of the failed
incantation
as a skeletal hand carefully closed the ancient hand-written grimoire.

"Chief, there's gotta be more to it than that." Using his medic's training, Jim Ellison gently
bandaged Sandburg's left hand as he listened to his explanation of his latest adventures.

"OW! I swear, Jim. That's IT! After I touched that super-hot building, I split. And I mean,
double-time."

"At least you could have told me you were going back there," Ellison admonished as he
tossed
the tape into the medical kit and latched it.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry you were worried." He looked at his gauze-covered palm and
flexed
blistering fingers. "Ow!" he murmured more softly, more as a statement than an exclamation.

"That will get real sore in the next few days. You'll have to be careful so it doesn't get
infected."

"Yes, sir, doctor. Okay, what now?"

"I'd like to take a look inside that weapons' booth, but without a warrant ..."

"I know, I know. I've been around you guys long enough. There's no evidence to link anyone
within that booth with the serial killings."

"Jim," Sandburg said softly from the kitchen. He hadn't moved from the table. "There's going
to be another murder tonight."

Ellison's jaw clenched as he replaced the medical box in the bathroom drawer and slowly
closed
it. "I know."

"You mean to tell me that nowhere in Cascade's modern police laboratories could they find a
clue
so we can stop this guy?"

"Not yet."

"Oh man." Sandburg ran his right hand through his long curls, forcing them back behind his
ears.
"This really sucks."

Ellison nodded. "Not much we can do about it. Forensics found no fingerprints anywhere, no
ripped clothing, nothing left by the killer. All we know is he or she is approximately your height,
judging by the position of the writing on the wall."

"Just great. That narrows the suspects down to a few thousand."

"At least."

"Jim, you didn't sense anything when you were there? No visuals, no smells?"

Settling into the living room sofa, Ellison shook his head. "This time Forensics was real
thorough.
I couldn't find anything more than they did."

"No smells?"

"I had it tuned way down. It was pretty bad, Chief."

"Jim, I was right there! I could've helped you isolate and tune out the individual odors."

"Too many people around. I took care of it, Sandburg."

But his partner was already on his feet. "Let's go back to the house where the girl was
murdered
last night."

Ellison released a long-suffering sigh. "Why?"

"Cause. I'll be right with you and there won't be any other cops around."

"You won't let this rest until we do, will you?"

"Absolutely not."

Ellison grabbed his keys as they headed out the door. "That's what I was afraid of."

The white vinyl-sided house did not stand out from the rest of the cookie-cutter homes on
the
block save for the bright yellow crime scene tape strung across the door. Standing on the
sidewalk
looking up at the darkened house, Sandburg took a deep breath and told himself that the girl's
body
had long since been removed. All the same ...

"Okay, let's try this one step at a time." Sandburg looked up at his partner and gestured
broadly.
"Close your eyes and try opening your senses. Just tell me what you smell."

Sandburg looked around at the dozens of cans lining the street and then up at Ellison,
chagrined.
"Sorry about that. I guess it's garbage day tomorrow. Try again. Filter that smell out."

"Sandburg." Ellison grumbled, annoyed. He really didn't see the point in doing this.

"Come on, do it. What've we got to lose?"

Shutting his eyes again, Ellison opened up his sense of smell, careful to tune out certain
recognizable odors this time. Then, slowly, carefully, he cocked his head, homing in on a certain
smell that shouldn't be there and began to walk forward. An excited Sandburg followed close
behind.
Careful not to allow his friend to zone out, he began to speak softly to him, "What is it, Jim? Is it
inside the house? Do you recognize it?"

"Yeah, yeah I do." Ellison turned his penetrating blue eyes bright with discovery on his
partner.
"It's the same vile odor I smelled outside the weapons' booth Sunday." He ran a hand over his
close-cropped hair. "How did I miss that?" He looked around the area in confusion. "How
*could* I have
missed that?!"

"Easy, Jim. Don't blame yourself." Sandburg's mind raced for a logical explanation to ease
his
friend's guilt. "Your subconscious probably recognized that smell and since you had such a
violent
reaction to it the first time, it automatically tuned it out."

"Damn! Just when I thought I had these senses figured."

"We're still learning. *I'm* still learning. There isn't a handbook on these things, you know."

Ellison sighed. "It's still not enough for a search warrant. What am I going to tell the judge?
Well,
your honor, there was this smell ... How exactly did I know about this smell? I have these
heightened
senses, you see ..."

"So what are we gonna do? We've got to investigate that booth. That smell is too unique to
be
a coincidence."

Doing a rapid about face, Ellison sprinted for his truck. "Come on Chief. We're going to the
fair."

The parking lot was deserted as Ellison and Sandburg pulled onto the fairgrounds. An almost
full
moon provided the only illumination, but on this clear and cloudless night it was all that was
necessary. Indistinct voices from a handful of the professional fair vendors camped on the edge
of the
grounds filtered through the treeline sounding like a radio not quite locked onto the right
frequency.

Ellison took note of the extraneous noise and tuned it down to fade into the background of
his
conscious as they hurried to the weapon's booth. The vile odor originating from within guided
the
Sentinel to the small building like a beacon.

"Why doesn't that give me a good feeling?" His partner muttered, walking up to the booth
and
looking around.

Reaching the building, Ellison stopped and shook his head, as if to clear it. "But whoever or
whatever causes that stench *was* here." He raised his hand, palm forward, to within a fraction
of
an inch of its surface. "It's not hot now."

"Mnft," was Sandburg's only response as he found the only door and tried it. It was not
locked.

"Chief," Ellison reached out as if to stop him. "I don't think that's such a good idea. I'm still a
cop, you know."

"Yeah, well, I'm not. And it's not breaking and entering -- it's opening and entering." He
peered
at Ellison from behind the open door, eyes wide with excitement. "Join me?"

With a clenching of his jaw and a quick Sentinel-heightened scan of the area, he followed
the
smaller man into the medieval booth.

"It's empty." Ellison noted the absence of all the knives and swords. "They must keep all
weapons in their trailer during the week since there's no security guards."

"Jim! Over here, I found something." His partner excitedly whispered to him, then suddenly
cried
out in surprise, jerking his hand back.

"Chief! You okay?" Ellison asked quickly, then in the near darkness he noticed his partner
quickly entwine his fingers as he softly muttered a series of ancient mantras.

"I'm fine. Just caught me by surprise." Sandburg said as he gently lifted a large leather-bound
volume onto the countertop. He pulled out a penlight and warned his Sentinel that he was about
to
intensify the light. The small beam played over the well-worn cover and revealed hand-written
pages
as the young man carefully opened the book. "Oh, my god! Oh, my god!" he kept exclaiming
softly
as he turned brittle page after brittle page. The reflected beam of the penlight lent an eerie glow
to
Sandburg's countenance as his excitement grew with the revelation of each new page.

"Chief, it's just an old book," Ellison stated the obvious in a futile attempt to calm his
Guide's
ever increasing agitation at the book's contents.

Sandburg looked up, ignoring the long curls that half covered his face. "*No, Jim*. It's much
more than that. I've *never* seen one. I don't even know how many still exist. This is a
*grimoire*,
and a black one from the looks of it."

Ellison shook his head in confusion and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. It didn't look
black to him -- it looked like old brown leather. "A *what*?"

"Well, this is a little out of my field, but I did take a few classes ... a grimoire is an ancient
hand-written book that gives precise instructions for various rituals. This book tells what prayers
and
incantations to say, what to wear, what tools to use -- everything you'd ever want to know about
how
to conjure up a demon or a spirit."

"Oh, come on!"

"Jim, just listen to me. This book is probably five to six hundred years old. It predates the
printing
press. Even if *you* don't believe in it, it's a sure bet the owner does. Look at it. Not a speck of
dust
on it. It's been used -- and often. And here, this illustration ..." Sandburg excitedly turned the
book
around for Ellison to see and pointed at a crude pen and colored ink drawing of a prone woman
with
her chest opened and a man standing alongside holding her heart in the palm of his hand.

Wordlessly, Ellison glared at the illustration, his jaw muscles working overtime as he
wondered
what twisted mentality would write such a horrific how-to book. Eventually, he tore his eyes
away
from the page and looked at Sandburg. "Can you read any of it?"

Immediately, the young man straightened and held both hands up in surrender. His
expression was
of surprise and horror. "Oh no, man. I wouldn't even consider trying. I might accidentally conjure
up
a demon and I'd have no idea how to contain it."

"All right." Ellison respected his partner's wishes, even if they were a little extreme, and
looked
around the small booth, which was little more than the size of an elevator. "We've got some
circumstantial evidence here, but nothing concrete. I want to nail this person so tight there's no
way
he can squirm loose. We'll get some plainclothes to work the fair tomorrow, keep an eye on this
booth."

"Does that mean we're done? We can go home?"

Ellison nodded, "Put the book back exactly the way you found it." He noticed a flash of
concern
cross his partner's features. "Blair?"

Sandburg's alert blue eyes glazed over as his mind flipped into the distant past and he softly
muttered, "I broke the guarding spell ... I broke it. I can't remember the planting ... how can I
replace
the guarding spell? He'll know I was here ... he'll know ..." Agitated now, he ran his bandaged
left
hand through a wayward lock of curls.

With his Sentinel's heightened hearing, Ellison understood clearly every word his partner
said --
and it made absolutely no sense to him whatsoever. His friend's distress was obvious, though and
that
bothered him. "Chief, are you all right?"

With a jerk, Sandburg turned to his partner and blinked back to the present completely
forgetting
the reason for his distress. "Yeah, fine." Carefully, he replaced the book and dusted his hands on
his
already tattered jeans. "Let's get out of here."

The two men rode in silence back to the loft, each totally immersed in his own thoughts.
Ellison's
gut instincts told him that he had found the serial killer, but he needed hard evidence. Evidence
that
would stand up in court leaving no doubt in any jury's mind of that man's guilt.

Sandburg stared out the window for the better part of the ride home. His mind a jumble of
past
and present, reality and imagination. For some unknown reason, he was getting his own gut
feelings --
and he didn't like them one bit.

The streets were deserted when Ellison parked the truck and trudged up the short flight to
the loft.
Trailing just behind Ellison, who was digging his keys out of his pocket as he approached the
door,
Sandburg didn't notice the warning mark until it was almost too late. Ellison's key was already in
the
lock and he was about to turn the doorknob when Sandburg cried out in surprise, "JIM!! STOP!!"

Immediately, Ellison's fingers spread wide over the knob and he backed away from his door.
His
first thought was a bomb trigger wire that he'd missed, but then he smelled *it* and turned to his
partner. "*He* was here."

Nodding, the young man pointed a shaky finger at the door, "He left *that* as a warning."

Seeing nothing himself, Ellison had to assume it was more bloody writing that only his
partner
could see. "What is it?"

"I'm not real sure of its exact meaning, but the idea is a death threat."

"Bomb?"

"No way. Probably some spell he found in the grimoire."

Ellison sighed and reached for the knob. "I'll call Simon from inside and have him take a
picture."

On instinct, Sandburg dived between the big man and the door, stopping him from opening
it.
Ellison's surprise was evident on his face and he was a little annoyed at his partner's insistence
that
mumbled words could be lethal.

"Jim, please ... just a minute." Sandburg had placed one hand on Ellison's broad chest and
with
the other began to fumble around in a large pocket in one of his oversized shirts he wore as a
jacket.

"Chief, I'm tired ... hungry ... and out of patience." He turned the stony Ellison glare on his
Guide.
He could very easily lift his small friend and move him down the hall and out the door if he had
to.
And he was giving it more and more consideration. "Now get out of my way."

"Yeah. Another minute ..." Panicked that his partner would barge past him and into unknown
danger lent more speed to his search. "Ah ha!" Smiling, he withdrew a small vial and held it up
in
front of Ellison's face.

"Sandburg ..." When Ellison used his last name in that tone, he was really irritated.

Quickly uncapping the tube, Sandburg tossed the clear liquid contents onto the door, roughly
in
the shape of a cross. The ensuing results were spectacular. White smoke billowed freely from the
area
of the bloody symbol that only he could see. Ellison jumped to one side, throwing his hands up
in
front of his face to guard it.

"What the hell did you do?" He shouted in annoyance, glaring at the smaller man through the
thick, white clouds. "Was that acid?!"

Smiling broadly, Sandburg shook his head and held up the vial, blue eyes sparkling with
excitement and discovery. "Holy Water. Got it a couple days ago. Figured it just might come in
handy.
Is this wild or what!!!"

"Water??!! Sandburg, water wouldn't ..."

"*Holy Water*." Sandburg corrected as he watched the smoke fade. The marking was now
gone
from the door and he looked up at Ellison in triumph. "It's safe now."

Ellison sniffed the area. Not only was there no more stench but there was no smell of smoke
either. Carefully, he opened his senses. All was back to normal. He looked at his small friend in
disbelief. How could Sandburg accept so blindly, so completely ... how could he be so -- right?!
Drawing his gun, Ellison opened the door, all his senses on alert. He scanned the loft and could
find
nothing unusual, nothing out of place. He was about to tell Sandburg it was all right to enter
when he
sensed his Guide nearby and knew he was already safely inside. He removed the holster and
tucked
the weapon inside before laying it on the table. "How did you know?"

"You mean about the Holy Water?" Sandburg shrugged. He hadn't really thought about it.
Certain
things he just did on instinct, like he did with figuring out his friend's Sentinel abilities. "I don't
know. It just felt right."

Ellison ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. Just when he thought he had a handle on his
Sentinel abilities something new comes up and throws a wrench into the works -- there always
seemed to be a constant reminder that he needed his Guide. Not that he needed a reminder. It
would
be hard for Ellison to imagine life without his small friend. Suddenly, he became aware that his
stomach was rumbling just loud enough to let him know that it'd been several hours since he'd
eaten.
"I'm going to have a sandwich before turning in. Want anything?"

"No thanks, Jim. I'm about ready to crash. I think my adrenalin is wearing off. See you in the
morning."

"Good night." Ellison strode into the kitchen and quickly made himself a ham and cheese
sandwich. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he took his midnight snack into the living room and
parked himself comfortably on the couch. Uncounsciously, he listened for his friend's rhymtic
breathing and, satisfied that he was sound asleep, finally relaxed.

"Hi, Jim." The familiar voice of his partner was at his elbow. Thinking that he must have
woke
up and changed his mind about having a snack, Ellison turned to face him and looked into a pair
of
older, blue orbs framed by wayward locks of curly brown hair.

"Kalabar!"

"Yeah. I'm ba-a-a-ck!" Sandburg/Kalabar was perched on the arm of the couch. His feet on
the
cushions. " Bout time you fell asleep. We're in deep shit, my friend."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"I know the murderer and now he knows us. Or rather -- me. I broke the guarding spell he'd
placed on his precious grimoire when I picked it up but then I couldn't remember how to
reactivate
it. Cintoban will know I've touched it. A thousand years ago he and I had it out over control of
the
world. Remember that battle I mentioned about opening the gates of Hell?"

"Oh great. Now we've got a reincarnated serial killer."

"Ah, well," Sandburg/Kalabar looked uncomfortable as he tugged a stray lock of hair into
place.
"Not exactly. After our ... ah ... skirmish, I was so mad at Cintoban I placed a curse on him."

"A curse?"

"A curse of immortality."

"Oh, that's a real curse all right."

"Well, it is if the person ages normally."

The memory of the odor of death and decay so vile that Ellison almost passed out quickly
surfaced and he was forced to surpress it least he become effected again. "The weapons' booth."

Sandburg/Kalabar nodded. "Renaissance Festivals are the perfect hiding place. Especially
since
I'm sure he's got himself another apprentince who can front for him." Sandburg/Kalabar shook
his
head sadly. "If only I'd destroyed that . . . thing . . . when I had a chance. Those girls . . ."
Expressive
blue eyes mirrored the anguish within. "My god, Jim, there have been over 600 deaths in the past
thousand years caused by that man." Tears welled up and freely coursed down his cheeks.
"Caused
by me."

*Oh man,* Ellison thought, *No wonder Blair always blames himself for everything. It's
instinctive. Now he's carrying a bucketload of guilt over the deaths of 664 women.* To
Sandburg/Kalabar, he said, "Listen, you didn't kill anyone and you are not responsible for the
actions
of anyone else but yourself."

"Yeah, well, I've given myself that speech before too." He offered Ellison a lopsided grin as
brown curls fell across his face. "I wasn't very convincing then, either."

"Well, in order to put him away I'm going to need more proof. Concrete proof for this
century's
courts. I can't expect you to put another curse on him."

"Courts won't do any good. No jail would be able to hold him for long. He still has some
talents
left."

"Then how . . .?"

"I left him one avenue of escape. One way to die, and in all these years he's never found it."

"What is it?"

Sandburg/Kalabar looked directly into Ellison's eyes and with a shutter, Ellison noticed the
coldness of the blue, the hard set to the mouth and thought that a thousand years ago he would
not
have wanted to have been on the receiving end of this wizard's anger.

"Fire."

"Are you suggesting I deliberately ..."

Suddenly Sandburg/Kalabar straightened and smiled. "Gotta go. REM - you know how it is. I
have to be with myself when I wake up."

"SANDBURG!" Ellison shouted at the fading apparation.

"You know, you really need to wake up and get off this couch. You're going to have a stiff
neck
if you sleep in that position all night," the disembdied voice chided him.

Blair Sandburg picked up the last egg from the carton and one-handedly cracked it into the
pan.
He cocked his head and listened to the water exploding from the shower head. Ellison had fallen
asleep on the couch last night and woke up with an annoying stiff neck. Now he was attempting
to
ease the muscles back into cooperating with the hottest water at the greatest pressure he could
stand.

*And, of course, he won't try any of my herbal muscle relaxers.* Sandburg thought, tossing
bread
into the toaster and prodding it into action.

The shower ended and out of the corner of his eye he saw his partner pad back to his room.
"Breakfast'll be ready in a minute," he said into the air in a normal voice, knowing full well that
Ellison's Sentinel hearing would pick it up.

A few minutes later the big man appeared and before Sandburg could open his mouth,
Ellison
pointed a finger at him and growled, "Don't say it. Don't say, I told you so.'"

Puzzled, Sandburg looked at him and grinned. "Jim, I wasn't even thinking that."

"Yeah, well," Ellison coaxed the warm toast out of the testy appliance and sat down. "Just in
case
you were." Then, pointing a butter-covered knife at his Guide, he added almost absentmindedly,
"And
keep your feet off the couch."

Sandburg almost laughed at the absurdity of the conversation, but instead, he divided up the
rest
of the breakfast and placed the steaming food on the table. As he sat down, he held both hands
up in
surrender. "Absolutely. No feet." Chewing on a forkful of eggs, he muttered, "Man, did you get
up
on the wrong side of the couch cushions this morning."

Ellison's eyes snapped into focus on Sandburg, "I heard that."

"Well, at least your ears are in working order."

A quick burst from Ellison's cell phone stopped the esclating conversation in its tracks.
Glaring
at his partner, he thumbed it on as he brought it into position. "Ellison," he barked at the phone,

"Banks. Jim, we've got another girl murdered. Same MO but the writing on the wall is
missing.
I need Sandburg ... God help me for saying that ... but I want him to take a look around and see if
there's anything that our camera can't or won't pick up."

"Okay, Sir. We'll be right there - address?"

"9189 Delmont South. Oh, and if you tell Sandburg I needed him, I'll disavow all
knowledge."

Captain's Banks' last statement almost enlisted a half smile from Ellison as he returned the
compact phone to his pocket. "Come on, Chief. There's been another one."

Captain Simon Banks met them at the door to the apartment. He noticed as Sandburg pulled
in
lungsfull of air in a valiant attempt to quell his already queasy stomach. Putting a comforting
hand
on the young man's shoulder, he said softly, "Sandburg, if there was any other way ... I know
you're
not an officer and I don't have any right to ask you to go in there ..."

Mentally calming himself with a favorite mantra, Sandburg shook his head. "It's all right, sir.
At
least I know what I'll find inside now. No more surprises."

Grimly, Banks looked over at Ellison. "Right. No more surprises."

But knowing what was inside and seeing what was inside were two entirely different things.
Another life had been snuffed out -- somebody's daughter, somebody's sister, somebody's friend.
The
young woman was laying in the center of what could be construed as the living room, her chest
open,
her heart laying nearby. A very large pool of blood spreading outward from the body was being
sponged up by the tacky, cheap carpet. Everyone could smell the death in that small room.

Sandburg gagged as all color abruptly faded from his face. His right hand flew up to cover
his
mouth as he turned toward the far wall, his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the vision that
wouldn't
go away.

Ellison felt his Guide's discomfort as acutely as if it were his own. He wished he could
lessen it,
but, unfortunately, all his heightened Sentinel senses allowed him to do was experience it. He
walked
over to stand behind Sandburg, blocking his view of the body in the living room should he turn
around. "Chief ..."

"They were both covered before, man." Sandburg's soft voice feathered onto Ellison's
hearing
as he spoke to the wall. "I mean, I *knew* they were there, I saw the blood and all ... but ... *they
were covered!!*"

"We can wait ..."

Still facing the wall, Sandburg shook his head. "No. I can do this. If there's any chance
there's
a lead here that I can find to help catch this maniac -- I'll do it!" Squaring his shoulders, he
dragged
in as deep a breath as his lungs would allow before bursting. Exhaling as he turned, he then
nodded
to his partner and began to concentrate on finding any numbers on the wall, studiously avoiding
even
a glance in the direction of the young woman's corpse.

As Sandburg searched for bloody writing on the wall, Ellison began his own investigation of
the
premises. Carefully, ever so carefully, he opened his sense of smell and filtered out the intense
odor
of spilled blood -- and there it was. The vile, odiferious scent of pure evil, the walking death he
had
first smelled at the weapons' booth and then later, at the scene of the murders. But he still needed
more proof, concrete proof that would stand up in court. *But what good would that do? There
isn't
a jail built that can contain him.* Ellison suddenly frowned and ran a hand over his
close-cropped
hair. *Where did *that* idea come from?* His Guide's presence by his side alerted Ellison that
he
had nearly zoned out on sensing the smells within that close, dank room. How many minutes had
passed? Five? Ten?

Only his macabre surroundings caused Sandburg to be oblivious to the fact that his large
friend
was border line zone out. "I can't find anything, Jim," he was forced to admit, however
reluctantly.
"There's no more numbers. Or maybe I just can't see them anymore."

Ellison snapped back into focus with a start at the sound of his Guide's voice. "Yeah. Well,
I'm
sure the captain appreciates your trying." He glanced down and studied Sandburg's troubled eyes.
"You okay, Blair?"

"No. No, I'm not okay. And I won't be until this maniac is behind bars."

"Yeah. You're not the only one." Ellison laid his hand on Sandburg's back and carefully
began
steering him toward the door without going too close to the still uncovered body. As they passed
by
an end table, Sandburg suddenly stopped and stared at a photograph of the young woman and a
tall,
blond man in a football uniform. Arms wrapped around each other, they were smiling at the
camera.
"Blair, come on." Ellison urged, aware that his partner could easily become obsessed with the
painful
grief of others.

"Has he been notified yet?" Sandburg asked softly.

"Blair ..." Ellison rolled his eyes skyward, but could find no help from the heavens.

"He really should be, you know."

"I'm sure Captain Banks has everything well in hand." Ellison caught the captain's eye and
motioned him over. "Blair was just wondering if the victim's boyfriend had been told yet,
Simon."

Assessing the situation immediately, Banks cleared his throat to get Sandburg's attention
"We
got his phone number and address from her date book. A plainclothes officer is on her way over
there
now."

When the young man looked up at the captain, his blue eyes shone with excitement, and his
face
was animated as he blurted, "Condoms!"

Ellison and Banks exchanged puzzled frowns. "What was that?" Captain Banks asked,
thinking
that Sandburg had finally fallen off the deep end of a shallow pool.

"In the bathroom, or the bedroom, maybe her purse ... Simon! Did you find any condoms?"

Ellison looked at his captain and could only offer a puzzled shrug.

"Yes, we did. But what's so unusual about that, Sandburg? After all, this *is* the nineties."

Excitedly, Sandburg faced both men. It made sense to him now. Why he couldn't see any
numbers
... *why there weren't any numbers.* "Don't you see!? He couldn't count her! She wasn't a virgin!
He couldn't use her as part of the sacrifice! She wasn't pure!"

"Damn!" Captain Banks chewed roughly on his unlit ever-present cigar. "Kathy!" he called
to the
coroner as she was overseeing the removal of the victim. As she looked up, he asked, "Were the
first
two women virgins?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir. Strange as it seems in this day and age, they were."

"Damn!" Banks muttered again, annoyed with himself that he'd overlooked such an obvious
fact.
But then, it was only really obvious to someone with a mind like Sandburg's. He looked at the
young
man and was forced to utter a complement. "Good work, Sandburg. That explains the lack of
numbers."

But Sandburg was shaking his head vigorously. "There had to have been another murder last
night. One no one has found yet. Since he couldn't count her, he had to have another victim,
number
665. He *has* to stay on schedule."

"What schedule, Chief?" Ellison asked.

"Jim, I checked the calendar. There's a full moon tomorrow night. That *has* to be when
he's
going to perform ... whatever ceremony he has planned."

"So, he plans on killing number 666 tonight," Ellison considered thoughtfully.

"Exactly!!"

Ellison looked Captain Banks directly in the eye. "It's time we paid another visit to the fair."

The deserted fairgrounds were quiet in the middle of the week. It was still several days until
the
weekend crowds would enter a 20th century conception of a medieval town for the last time that
semester.

Detective Jim Ellison quickly scanned the area of the weapons' booth from the parking lot as
soon as he and Sandburg arrived. There was no one there, as expected.

Sandburg pointed to the left. "There's the campgrounds. Most of the regulars have RVs and
just
stay there."

"Already paid a visit to the camp, have you?" If it weren't for the gravity of the situation,
Ellison
would've allowed himself a slight smile.

"Hum-m-m." Ellison exited his truck and motioned to Captain Banks as his squad car pulled
alongside. "There's no one in the village. Let's check out the campgrounds."

"It's gonna be hard to block all the exits. The camp borders on the woods. Our suspect could
bolt
and hide," Banks observed.

Ellison's jaw muscles flexed as he fixed a hard, cold stare at the collection of trailers and
campers. "Not from me, he couldn't," he grumbled softly.

A bony hand, with its skin as dark and shriveled as a mummy's, carefully handed the arrow
to the
teenager. Thomas accepted the shaft, almost gratefully, as he inserted it into the crossbow.

"You cannot miss," the raspy voice rolled out from under the black velvet hood that
obscured his
face. "Stay here within the area of the shielding spell and the apprentice will not hear or see
you."

The young man nodded. He trusted the specter of a man he called "Master" and wanted
desperately to please him.

"The apprentice must die," the voice continued. "Aim for the heart. My spelling will guide
the
arrow. You cannot miss. He will become too powerful if he lives and will be a danger to us all."

"What of the wizard?" Thomas ventured to ask.

"Without the power of his apprentice, my enemy will be easy to dispose of. He has forgotten
the
old ways -- and that will be his undoing. His and his world's." The gnarled old man hobbled
away
from his student muttering to himself. "I have plans for Kalabar. My own plans."

A slow, fluid movement -- so out of place in the wooded area surrounding the camp --
caught
Sandburg's attention. Had living with a Sentinel for more than a year heightened his own senses?
Or
had just being around a cop made him more observant?

Why was he drawn to that motion? What *was* that motion?

"Jim ..." He called to his partner to direct his Sentinel abilities at the area, but to no avail.
Ellison
seemed oblivous to that section of the woods.

Sandburg stared; wishing he had just a little of his friend's incredible vision ... then he saw
the
reason for the disparate motion -- a man trying to conceal himself in the woods... no ... not just a
man
... a SNIPER!! And it seemed as if he were aiming at the huddle of officers ... aiming at Jim!

Acting purely on instinct, an instinct 500 years in the making, Sandburg turned and bolted
toward
Ellison. "JIM!" he shouted in panic as he launched himself at his partner.

Jim Ellison looked up at his friend only seconds before the young man's body slammed hard
into
his in a flying tackle and they both crashed to the ground. He felt a pinprick of pain in his chest
as
well as the weight of his partner. He looked at Sandburg in surprise and mild annoyance that was
quickly replaced by shock as his senses registered the young man's rapidly dropping temperature
and
fading heartbeat.

"Chief? What ...?" As his arms encircled the limp body to gently roll his partner off him, his
fingers touched a thin wooden dowel protruding from Sandburg's back. "Oh god!" he muttered.
Then
to Captain Banks he shouted, "Officer down! Get an ambulance here stat!"

Dimly, Sandburg heard Ellison shout and fuzzily wondered who of the police officers had
gotten
wounded. He looked into Ellison's worried face and forced a grin in a useless attempt to alleviate
his
friend's fears. "Guess ... this is ... gonna ... hurt like ... hell."

"Blair, why?" Ellison was cradling his partner very carefully so nothing touched the arrow's
shaft.
Instantly and without conscious thought, his senses were registering his Guide's distress. The
clammy
blanket of shock was inching over his partner. No matter how close Ellison held him, he could
not
insulate Sandburg from the cold.

"I'm fine." The big man heard an unfamiliar voice choke on a reply. Strange. His
hypersensitive
Sentinel vision was blurring. His first thought was that he'd have to tell Sandburg about that.

Sandburg's fuzzy vision from the initial shock was slowly beginning to clear. He stared into
Ellison's face and could've sworn he saw those deep blue eyes begin to puddle with moisture. He
was
about to comment when the breath he was going to inhale to speak suddenly wasn't there. In a
panic,
he tried to drag in more air, but his lungs just weren't going to cooperate. He heard a rattling
sound
and likened it to the time he had a severe case of bronchitis -- only now it was louder and more
definite. He didn't like it. It was uncomfortable. And not being able to breathe frightened him. It
was
a basic human reaction but it took his mind off the pain that was just now beginning to register
in his
brain.

His partner's panic assailed his senses and Ellison held Sandburg as close to his own body as
he
dared. "Easy, Blair. Easy. You've got a punctured lung. I can hear it. Shallow breaths, Chief.
Shallow
breaths. I know it's hard. I know you want to take a deep breath, but you can't. Trust me on this.
I'm
a medic, remember?" He felt Sandburg's head move against his chest once in acknowledgment.
He
sighed and heard the gradual slowing of the young man's heart and unsuccessfully willed his own
to
stop racing wildly in fear.

So in tune was he to his partner's fading vital signs, Ellison hadn't registered the firing of the
Captain's gun at the sniper as soon as Sandburg was shot. He hadn't registered the half dozen
officers
who went charging past him into the woods after the shooter. But when someone shouted, "You
got
him, captain. He's dead!" Ellison suddenly wanted to scream, "NO! He's not!! HE'S NOT
DEAD!"

"Where's that damn ambulance?" Ellison did allow himself to shout -- to no one in particular
and
everyone within earshot.

"Jim," Captain Banks' hand was on his shoulder. "It's only been a few minutes. It's on the
way."

A few minutes? It was an eternity ago ... 500 years to be exact. 500 years of waiting for
another
Sentinel -- to guide, to protect -- TO PROTECT! Unbidden thoughts, remnants of a dream rolled
through Ellison's mind. He looked down into the ashen face of his partner and forgotten words
snapped into being, "The Guide's job was to guide and protect the Sentinel."

"Oh god, Blair." Ellison muttered aloud, "You knew about the sniper ... You did this on
purpose..." He felt a tremor of pain course through the small, pale form cradled in his arms and
his
vision faded even more. "Hang in there, Chief." He swallowed past the growing lump in his
throat
and added softly, "Please don't leave me."

"Don't...plan...onit." was whispered as lightly as a cat's breath. Only Ellison's Sentinel
hearing
registered the words.

Gently coaxing a few stray curls out of Sandburg's face, Ellison's gaze fell on the bloodied,
finely
polished arrowhead protruding from his partner's chest. He remembered the pinprick he felt
when
the young man crashed into him and glanced down at the circle of blood surrounding a small tear
in
his sweater. It was a shallow wound, barely worthy of Ellison's attention. Hell, he'd had worse
shaving cuts -- but this puncture was directly over his heart. With a shock, he realized the
certainty
of his death had not Sandburg intercepted the arrow. He wanted to scream, to beat his fists upon
the
ground in a primitive gesture of frustration and rage ... he wanted desperately to thump his
partner
on the back of his head and threaten him with bodily harm if he EVER did anything so reckless
again
... he wanted to cry ...

A spasm suddenly rocked Sandburg's body, he gasped and grabbed a fistful of Ellison's
sweater,
willing himself close to draw on his large friend's strength for his own was fading fast. Ellison
gathered him in his arms as tightly as he dared, creating an imaginary lifeline between them.
Fearful
now, that should his friend be taken away, far from his touch -- he would never again see him
alive.

"Chief, I'm sorry ...so sorry ..." Ellison murmured repeatedly to his semi-conscious partner.
Sandburg gave no indication he'd heard as his fingers loosened their grip on the wool and slid
down
Ellison's chest to dangle limply from his shoulder. His eyes, previously locked tight against the
last
waves of pain, suddenly relaxed -- his expressive face, now calm. Panicked, Ellison immediately
opened his senses to his partner's life signs. He felt the slight vibration of shallow breathing and
heard
a faint, irregular heartbeat.

"Jim," Captain Banks knelt beside the two men, "The ambulance is here." He glanced at
Sandburg's limp form encased within Ellison's large arms. He looked at his friend and forced a
swallow down a tightened throat. Never before had he seen such a look of pain and fear etched
on his
detective's features. "Jim ...?" No response. Was this a zone out? How would he recognize it?
How
*did* Sandburg handle it?

Ellison blinked quickly and turned to the captain. "I heard you, Simon." The breaking voice
was
not his and he cleared it before attempting to speak again. "Better tell the medics they need a
heavy-duty nipper to cut off the end of the shaft. They can't transport Blair with a foot of arrow
sticking out
of his back."

He didn't relax his hold even when the attendants arrived and began measuring Sandburg's
vital
signs. A low whistle of surprise caught Ellison's attention though and he turned to the paramedic
staring at the arrow protruding out of his partner's back. "What is it?" he asked.

"I've never seen anything like *this* ... Hold him steady. I'm going to cut it as close to his
body
as I can."

The loud SNAP! caused Ellison to wince involuntarily. Once the shaft was removed and
temporary padding and bandages were applied, the paramedics were ready to place Sandburg on
the
stretcher. Ellison hesitated a moment, fearful to cut the lifeline he'd connected to his partner.

"Sir?" The paramedic urged. "We're ready to move him now. You can release him. Sir?"

Ellison blinked, then looked into the ashen complexion of his Guide. Wordlessly, he shifted
his
precious bundle and with only marginal assistance from the two paramedics, carefully laid his
partner
on the stretcher. As Sandburg was being loaded into the ambulance, he felt Captain Banks
approach.

With a brief nod of acknowledgment, Ellison tossed his captain the keys and climbed into
the
back to sit as close to his friend as possible, and if necessary, reestablish the lifeline with a
touch.

"Captain?" One paramedic asked the tall, athletic black man. At Banks' affirmative nod he
handed him a wooden dowel about a foot long. "Here, you just might find this useful." As Banks
reached for the piece of arrow, the paramedic warned, "Be careful. This thing's thorny as an
over-sized rose stem."

From the back of the ambulance, Ellison's blue eyes locked onto the protruding thorns
encircling
the shaft and Banks saw them darken with hate and fear. "If the shaft still inside Blair is like
that..."
he muttered.

"Yeah," the paramedic nodded as he closed the doors. "The surgeon will have a hell of a
time
getting it out without ripping -- ah -- inflicting further damage. That thing was custom designed
to
kill. No doubt about it."

As the ambulance pulled away, siren blasting a warning of its coming, Banks gazed at the
thorn-encrusted shaft and shuttered. *Too close.* he thought. *Much too close.* He
remembered the look
of helplessness on Ellison's face as he cradled his young friend's unconscious body, and
reconsidered.
It might not be close after all. It might be dead on.

James Ellison allowed himself to be led to the waiting room. Since he was not permitted by
his
partner's side during the examination, he would have to be content with monitoring the activities
surrounding him by using his heightened senses. Every beep of the heart monitor, every labored
breath taken, Ellison registered. When a nurse breezed by on her way to the elevators, she
stopped
only long enough to inform him that Sandburg was on his way to OR; that he was alive; and if he
knew any prayers ... say them.

Banks stopped by and sat with him for an eternity. Ellison, unresponsive, stared off in the
distance
... listening, listening, ... registering a faint life-force that he held onto if only to protect his own
sanity. After an hour, the captain realized the futility of the situation and considered he needed to
process the paperwork of the past events. "Call me when he's out of surgery," he said in Ellison's
ear.
His only answer was a slight inclination of the big man's head. He wondered if Ellison should be
left
alone and decided that after he returned to the station, he'd assign an officer to watch over him
and
Sandburg.

He was alone; but only from the physical presence of a fellow officer. The link, the
intangible
union between Sentinel and Guide was still intact and Ellison held onto that link as his only
contact
with his reality.

"Hi, Jim."

Ellison's eyes snapped open. He must have dozed off for a moment. Disoriented, he looked
up
into the face of his friend and Guide ... "Blair? What ...?" Suddenly, the starchiness of the
hospital
waiting room registered and with a start, Ellison jumped up and stared in the direction of the
operating room. Cold fear gripped his heart as, even in his sleep, his mind reached out and
searched
for life signs of his partner.

"Hey, easy, man. Easy," the apparition chided him as he sat down in the chair facing the
couch
Ellison's sleeping body was occupying. "I'm still alive. Okay? Sorry to startle you like that, but I
had
to see you."

"Kalabar. Damn!" Ellison's dream self resettled on the couch.

"Why don't you think of my name as Blair Kalabar Sandburg. Stop thinking of me as
possessing
Blair. We are one and the same person."

Ellison looked from the OR to Sandburg/Kalabar and fought the growing anxiety building in
his
stomach. "How is he ... are you?"

He shrugged. "I'm alive. For now that's the best I can do. I like this life, Jim. I don't want to
leave
it. I don't want to leave you."

"You have a crazy way of showing it. What possessed you to jump in front of that arrow like
that?" As soon as he said it, Ellison knew he shouldn't have shouted at his friend. He should be
thanking him for saving his life, not yelling at him for doing it. But right now Ellison would've
traded
places in a heartbeat with his young partner. He was helpless and he hated that feeling.

"Hey, sorry I saved your life. If it makes you feel any better, I was trying to tackle you out of
the
way, but ... well, hitting you was like hitting a brick wall and that arrow was moving just a tad
too fast
to get both of us out of the way."

Drawing in a deep breath, Ellison tried to calm himself. Tried to calm the fear, the anger, the
frustration. "Thank you. But ... DAMNIT, Blair ... I .." He looked helplessly around the waiting
room,
trying to sense in sleep what came automatically to his awake self. "Don't die on me, Chief.
Please
don't die. I need you."

"I need you, too, man. We're becoming a unit, in case you haven't noticed. One heart, one
mind,
one thought. You think I haven't realized that you know when I'm around? That you know when
I'm
in trouble -- even though I'm miles away?" Sandburg/Kalabar cocked his head and allowed a
strand
of hair to fall over his face. "That's part and parcel of the Guide/Sentinel thing."

"Was that the way it was ... before?"

"Before ..." Sandburg/Kalabar sighed and looked off into the distant past. "We were best
friends,
grew up together. When the tribal elders determined that Ulan had the gift of Sentinel senses
they
were going to pick his Guide -- usually an older man, more experienced than the young
Sentinel." He
turned to Ellison and gazed deeply into his soul. "Ulan refused the choice. He said he could trust
no
one but me. It was a great honor, you know. At that time, the Sentinel depended on his Guide for
everything. He trusted his Guide with his life every day. We were closer than any man and
woman,
closer than any blood relative. Over the years ... we became one. One heart, one soul, one mind."
He
blinked, cleared his throat, and snapped back to the present. "Of course, it probably won't be
quite
as tight a bond in this century. After all, you have your life and I have mine." He brushed the hair
out
of his eyes in a gesture so familiar, Ellison wanted to cry. "Right?"

Wanting to avoid further discussion on such a painful topic, Ellison inclined his head toward
the
OR. "Shouldn't you be getting back just in case you wake up?"

Sandburg/Kalabar shook his head. "I won't be waking up for awhile." That sounded way too
ominous for Ellison's comfort, but before he could comment on it, the apparition of his partner
continued, "I need you to NOT wait for me. You have to stop Cintoban before he opens the gates
of
Hell. You're the only one, Jim. Only you have the power to stop him."

"No. No way. I'm not leaving you until you're out of surgery. Until you look me in the eyes
and
I know you're going to make it."

"Jim," Sandburg/Kalabar pleaded, "I might not wake up for days *if ever* it's going to be a
full
moon tomorrow night -- the ceremony -- *please* you must stop him!"

"I don't know where he is. I don't even know what he looks like."

"You don't have to know what he looks like. You can smell him. And there's only one place
where he *could* be. In the woods surrounding the fairgrounds."

"Sandburg. I am NOT leaving you."

"Listen to me, Jim. This will be the greatest use of your Sentinel abilities -- ever! To save the
entire world, man!" Ellison's only response was to stare in the direction of the operating room.
Sandburg/Kalabar sighed and batted a lock of hair back into place in frustration. His Sentinel
was not
going to leave him to pursue phantom demons. He began to realize that Jim Ellison only existed
in
the 20th century -- that was *his only* reality. Sandburg/Kalabar was going to have to try a
different
approach. "There's going to be another murder tonight," he said softly as he leaned forward.

"At least he knows about your abilities and he knows about zone out. I know he's not a
Guide,
but in a pinch he'll do." Sandburg/Kalabar grinned broadly. "And you can tell him I said that."

A corner of Ellison's mouth twitched.

Not giving his friend a chance to state a definite NO, Sandburg/Kalabar continued as if the
agreement was a done deal. "Great. After I'm out of surgery, you'll need to make a quick stop at
the
loft. In my room you'll find a small plastic bottle with a gold cross on it. It's filled with Holy
Water.
Take it." He quickly held up a hand to quiet his Sentinel's objections. "Humor me, Okay?
Remember
the door? Take the Holy Water."

"I ... I don't know ..."

"Jim, you'll do just fine. You have the power. That's why Cintoban is afraid of you."

Ellison's attention wandered back to the operating room. "How's it going in there?"

Sandburg/Kalabar sighed and stood. "I'm still alive if that's what's worrying you. Jim, I
promise
you ... whatever happens, I will not leave you while you go after Cintoban."

"You can't promise that."

"I do have some small powers left. Trust me, okay? I'll be with you if you need me."

Ellison turned back toward the chair -- only to find it empty. "Blair?"

"Detective Ellison?" A weary, bent middle-aged woman in surgical scrubs gently placed her
hand
on his shoulder. Jumping awake, he startled the doctor into backing up a step.

Panicked, he looked from her to the OR and back again. "Blair?"

"He survived surgery. He'll be a few hours in recovery before he can be moved to a room."

"That's it? All you can say is He survived surgery'?"

"Right now ... yes. The surgical team had to create a considerable opening around the arrow
in
order to remove it without tearing into the surrounding tissue. His lung has been repaired and
there
was no other damage save to muscle, which, unfortunately created a great deal of internal
bleeding.
The next 24 hours are critical and if he makes it through the night, there's a good chance he'll
have
a fifty/fifty chance."

"Where is he? I have to see him."

Exhausted, she shook her head. "He's in recovery. Later."

Ellison towered over her and steel-cold eyes bored into hers. "I want to see him. I *have* to
see
him. Now."

"Look, detective ..."

"Please."

She took in his torn, blood-stained sweater, his sunken eyes with the haunted look and
sighed.
"All right; but only for a few minutes. Follow me."

James Ellison, survivor of 18 months alone in the Peruvian jungles, hardened detective of
the
Cascade police force, stood by the bedside of the unconscious Anthropology student and
allowed an
uncommon tear to course down his chiseled features. Reaching out, he enfolded his partner's
limp
hand with his own and cleared the lump out of his throat before speaking.

"Hey, Chief. I just had to check on you. I know you can't hear me, but I wanted to tell you
that
I'm going after the killer. I have to get him before he murders another young woman."

Gently stroking the left hand that still carried a light bandage to protect the burns he
received
when the touched the weapons' booth -- so very long ago. He tried to see past his Guide's pale
face
and remember his constant vibrancy, the laughing eyes -- and told himself that they would
return.

"Don't worry about me. I'm taking Simon as backup." He allowed a corner of his mouth to
twitch
upward. "I know he's not a Guide but in a pinch he'll do." He looked down at the small hand
nearly
hidden within his own. "You know, I've heard that in some cultures when a person saves the life
of
another, that life belongs to him." He had to clear his throat again before he could continue. "I
guess
that makes you my Blessed Protector now."

Ellison knew he had to leave, had to go after the killer --- but he was so afraid to break the
tenuous lifeline he had just reestablished. So afraid his partner wouldn't be waiting for him when
he
returned.

So afraid ...

"Blair ... God, Blair ... don't die." He willed his senses past the steady beep of the monitor
and
the almost imperceptible swoosh of the respirator to find his friend's own faint lifesigns. He
found
them, and held onto them. Willing them to grow stronger. Willing a part of himself were that
possible.

A dot of moisture fell onto the sheet where Sandburg's hand was covered by that of his large
partner's. Suddenly, Ellison gulped in a deep breath. His body shook with the exertion and he
nearly
lost consciousness. In his zone out, he'd temporarily forgotten to breathe. "Oh man," he muttered
to
his unconscious partner. "Why is it whenever I really need you, is when I'm reminded of how
much
I need you, because you're not there?"

Steadying himself, Ellison removed his hand and looked into the serene face of his friend.
"You'd
better be here when I get back," he warned. And before he could change his mind, turned and
quickly
strode out of the room and out of the hospital.

"Just what do you mean, you want to go back to the woods? Do you know how late it is?"
Captain
Simon Banks was just about to close his office door and call it a night when Ellison appeared in
the
doorway.

"I know how late it is, Simon. That's why I have to go *now*. I have to be there before
midnight."

"Jim, you need to go back to the loft and get some rest ..."

"No. I can't. If you won't go with me, then I'll go alone." Purposefully, Ellison turned on his
heel
and strode toward the elevators.

"Jim! Jim, wait up." Banks sighed and stuffed an unlit cigar into his mouth. "All right. I'm
going
with you. Damn, you're stubborn." He shrugged into his overcoat as he stepped into the elevator.

"I do need to make a quick stop at the loft ..." Ellison said as the doors closed them inside.

Banks eyed Ellison's sweater, still covered in Sandburg's blood and a jagged hole torn over
his
heart area. "To change that sweater, I hope."

The fairgrounds were as quiet as a dead phone line when Ellison pulled his truck up to the
entry
gates. As he stepped down from the cab, all his senses went on alert, scanning the immediate
area.
Banks waited what he considered an appropriate amount of time before asking, "Anything?"

Ellison nodded in the direction of the woods. "The smell is strongest that way." Then broke
into
a comfortable jog. Luckily for Simon Banks the moon was bright enough for him to see his way
without any heightened senses for Ellison was not waiting for anyone. When he reached the edge
of
the underbrush, he stopped and motioned for his captain to approach cautiously. Instincts honed
by
years of military training and months spent surviving in the jungle immediately resurfaced. "I
don't
see him, but I do hear some kind of chanting off to the right."

"Okay. Single file, weapons ready. You lead." Banks own military training reappeared as if
combat had been only yesterday.

Silently, Ellison moved toward the sound followed closely by his captain. Within minutes
they
had found a small clearing illuminated by a ghostly campfire. In the center, the body of a young
woman lay motionless on the bed of grass. Her chest had been opened and by her head, her heart
lay
alone on a flat rock. Standing between the body and the campfire with his back to the two men,
was
a short figure completely enveloped by a black, hooded cloak that fell to the ground in folds. The
figure held aloft in his left hand -- a rock -- and was chanting furiously.

"Damn!" For reasons Ellison could never explain, he ducked behind the surrounding bushes,
making the most of whatever cover they could provide, and scurried to his right, his heightened
senses
on alert.

The figure slowly turned. His arms never moving. The bottom of his robe floating, changing
direction. There was nothing visible within the folds of the hood. Nothing visible to Simon
Banks,
but Jim Ellison's Sentinel vision saw a demon from Hell. So intent on capturing the madman
before
him, Banks didn't hear his friend's sharp intake of breath; or notice the slight glow emanating
from
within the hood. The crackle of lightening caught him completely by surprise and he collapsed
to the
ground unconscious, his weapon still clutched tightly in his hand.

"JIM!" A familiar voice sounded in Ellison's mind. "The Holy Water, Jim. Dribble the Holy
Water in a circle around you! NOW!" Quickly, he obeyed his partner's urging, not even
considering
how he was communicating with an unconscious Guide. "Don't move out of the circle. It will
protect
you."

"What about Simon?" Ellison muttered aloud.

"Simon's no threat to him. Cintoban fears *you*. It's you he wants dead, Jim. Don't give him
an
opening."

Slowly, Ellison stood up within the circle, weapon raised and pointed at the heart of the
apparition before him. "Drop the rock," he commanded.

The hood inclined toward Ellison; the old, raspy voice was soft, almost hypnotic. "Ah ha!
Apprentice! Couldn't fool you, could I? Even by moving the ceremony up a night, you're still
here.
And you've done some homework, too! Made yourself a guarding, have you?" Then it suddenly
lost
control and screamed irrationally. "Do you really think you can stop me? After a thousand years
--
do you really think I will be stopped by an innocent!!??"

"I think you can be stopped by a bullet," Ellison replied coolly, his gun hand never wavering.

"I don't," the figure stated simply and raised the black, encrusted rock above its head,
cupping
it tenderly within its two hands. It resumed the slow, rhythmic chant.

"I said DROP YOUR WEAPON!" Ellison shouted as the wind began to increase in intensity
and
threatening storm clouds gathered overhead.

The chant continued.

The clouds tumbled closer to the ground, grew in size and became as black as Cintoban's
soul
as lighting flashed horizontally within. The surrounding air was becoming heavy and Ellison felt
as
if he were trying to breathe underwater. His limbs were almost too tired to hold his weapon and
he
was becoming exhausted from trying to tone down the assault upon his hypersensitive senses.

For one brief instant -- time, life and the surrounding universe stood still. For one instant.
Then,
all Hell broke loose ...

Ellison had shot the focal point of that being's existence -- the rock. When the bullet tore
through
that ancient piece of quartz, reducing it into a million pieces, the evil within the robe screamed
in
frustration, rage and pain. A scream that was dredged up from the bowels of Hell itself as
fragments
were embedded in the face of the thing that once called itself human.

Lightening blanketed the clearing, reducing small trees and shrubs to ashes; forcing Ellison
to stay
within his protective circle as the bolts struck all around him, but could not pierce the guarding
spell
of the circle of Holy Water. But the din was almost too much for the Sentinel to bear. Huddled
on the
ground, his hands clasped tightly over his ears, Ellison could only watch the fireworks through
silted
eyes as he wondered, briefly, if any of this errant weather was being caught on radar.

He watched with interest as the hooded figure screamed and clutched at its face, staggering
blindly around the campsite; long cloak billowing around it, but still revealing nothing.
Suddenly, the
figure stumbled into the fire. Immediately, the flames reached for the dirty, decaying fabric and
enveloped it. Different screams now emanated from within the darkness of the hood. Cries of
agony.
Instinctively, Ellison positioned himself to run out of his circle and help put out the fire that was
quickly consuming the figure within the robe. But that familiar voice whispered in his mind,
"No,
Jim. The evil must die." Ellison allowed himself to sit back down, cradle his aching head
between
his hands and try to shut out the screams. Through all the commotion, he thought he heard an
almost
human voice cry, "No! I changed it!! I changed it!!"

A lighting strike nearby temporarily blinded the Sentinel and when he was finally able to
blink
past the white spots dancing before his eyes the weather had cleared, the campfire was
extinguished,
and there was no hooded figure to be found. Banks was staggering groggily to his feet and
calling for
him, concern evident in his voice.

"I'm okay, Simon," Ellison called out, getting to his feet. "Are you all right?"

"One hell of a headache, but other than that ..." Banks was standing, leaning against a nearby
tree,
as he surveyed the scorched clearing. "Damn! Looks like I missed the fireworks."

"His robe caught fire. He was pretty much a ball of flames when he ran into the woods. I
imagine
we'll find his body somewhere out there tomorrow."

Banks shuttered. "Wish I could say I felt sorry for him, dying like that ... but I don't. Not after
what he'd done."

Ellison nodded and pulled out his cell phone. "I know what you mean. I'll get the coroner out
here
to take care of the last victim; then, I'm headed back to the hospital."

"I'll get her. You go on. I'll catch a ride back to the station." Captain Banks said as he dug out
his phone and flipped it open.

Gratitude flashed across Ellison's features as he pocketed his phone and turned to go.
"Thanks,
Simon."

"Tell Sandburg ... well, tell him everyone at the station is pulling for him."

James Ellison dragged in a deep breath and steeled himself for whatever he might see on the
other
side of the hospital door. He'd already extended his sense of hearing as soon as he'd entered the
building, searching for the one and only heartbeat that was instantly recognizable to him. He
*had*
found it ... and offered a prayer of thanks that his partner was still alive. But as he paused by the
closed door to Sandburg's room, extending his hearing, enveloping his friend like a blanket, he
tried
to determine beforehand his physical condition. Ellison hated surprises.

He gently pushed open the door and entered.

The small form half hidden under the covers looked as pale as the sheets he was laying on to
Ellison's eyes. A heart monitor beeped softly in the corner and an IV trailed down into his wrist,
replacing the blood he'd lost. He was calm -- and to Ellison that was the most disturbing thing of
all.
He pulled up a nearby chair and sat by his friend's bed. Placing his left hand over Sandburg's still
bandaged one, he needlessly brushed a few stray curls from his partner's face with the other.

"How're you doing, Chief?" Ellison asked softly. "Everyone's worried about you, you know."
He
cleared his throat since lately it seemed that everytime he wanted to talk to his partner, there was
an
obstruction in it. Not to mention his vision kept getting blurry. "Simon and I got the bad guy. I
shot
his rock." He allowed himself a half smile. "You really would've enjoyed the fireworks. It was
almost
enough to give an atheist religion."

He studied his Guide for a moment. It was not often he saw Sandburg so quiet ... so
unpleasantly,
so annoyingly, so frustratingly ... quiet. He sighed and made himself comfortable in the chair,
still
holding onto his partner's hand -- creating a reassuring lifeline.

"Hi Jim."

Ellison looked up to see Sandburg/Kalabar sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. "Blair!"

"So you shot old Cintoban's rock -- MAN!! I wish I'd been there to see that!!"
Sandburg/Kalabar
was grinning broadly, nearly bouncing off the bed in his enthusiasm. "And fireworks?? There
were
fireworks?? MAN!! I bet he was PISSED!!"

"Pissed was not the word for it. I *never* want to go through that again."

"Jim ... Cintoban ... is he ...?"

"His robe caught fire, as if you didn't know. You *were* with me somehow, weren't you?
You
were giving me instructions, advice, the entire time."

Sandburg/Kalabar's bright blue eyes sparkled with unrestrained exuberance. "I told you I
would
help you, didn't I? Why don't you believe me when I say I'll be with you?"

"Pure 20th century stubbornness, I guess. That's not supposed to be able to happen."

The young/old Guide cocked his head in a familiar gesture and smiled. "Sentinels aren't
supposed
to happen, either."

Ellison smiled back. "Touch‚."

"Hey, man." Sandburg/Kalabar turned serious, "Thanks for everything, okay? I know I don't
say
it often enough, but I *do* think it. Thank you for being my friend, for being there for me ..."

"Chief, in case you forgot -- *you* saved *my* life, remember?"

"Yeah, well ... it works both ways." The figure on the bed smiled again and began to fade.
"Thanks for everything, Jim. I've gotta go now."

James Ellison woke with a start and jumped out of the chair he had dozed off in. Concern
clouded
the rich blue of his eyes as he smiled down at his partner. "Hey, Chief. Had me a little worried
there."

Sandburg tried to focus on his large friend as he worked up the strength to speak. "Me too."

A lopsided grin was Sandburg's only response. He was so tired and speaking took so much
energy.

"Look, you need to rest." The big man released his partner's hand, but Sandburg had other
plans.
With surprising strength, he clutched at Ellison's hand and held on. Ellison stared at his Guide's
fingers locked around his own and smiled. "Okay. I won't leave. I'll be here the next time you
wake
up. Promise."

Sandburg nodded once and content, drifted off into a restful sleep.

Out of habit, Ellison extended his senses and allowed them to touch on his young friend's
vital
signs. Satisfied that they were, indeed, stronger, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax
into
the chair.